Written in Stone by Ellery Adams Page B

came from North Carolina, she now
     began to systematically look up each and every high school in the state, scrolling
     through page after page of material before locating the school colors and mascot.
    She had just finished looking at New Bern High’s website and was about to cross its
     name off her list when someone knocked timidly on her door.
    “Come in,” Olivia said without turning around.
    “Ms. Limoges.” Candice spoke in a deferential whisper. “Noah’s ready to interview
     you now.”
    Following Candice to the bar, Olivia was amazed by the network of power cords crisscrossing
     the carpet and the blinding brightness of the lights directed on Gabe as he prepared
     a Boot Top Bellini for the camera.
    Olivia didn’t need to be a director to see that Gabe was a natural. Completely at
     ease in the spotlight, he smiled and spoke in the relaxed conversational tone that
     encouraged customers to show up at the bar well before dinner. With his all-American-surfer-boy
     good looks and the devotion with which he performed his job, Gabe was sure to coax
     droves of female
Talk of the Town
viewers into visiting the Carolina coast.
    Delighted by Gabe’s performance, Noah asked him to wrap up by serving a glass of red
     wine and an Oyster Bay Breeze to a well-dressed tourist couple Candice had plucked
     from the streets. This simple sequence was filmed at least five times before Noah
     was satisfied. Finally, the cameras and the powerful lights were turned off and the
     tourists returned to their vacation, a gift certificate for a free meal in hand.
    “We’re in the kitchen in five, people!” Noah shouted and sank into one of the bar’s
     leather club chairs. He held out his hand, palm up, clearly waiting for Candice to
     fulfill an unspoken demand.
    She was ready with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, but when the director went
     to light up, Olivia grabbed his wrist. “Not in here, please. You can smoke out back.
     That’s where the staff goes.”
    Noah’s cigarette dangled from between pursed lips, his expression incredulous. But
     then he shrugged, said, “Sure thing,” and headed through the swing doors to the kitchen.
    Fifteen minutes later, Olivia grew tired of waiting for her interview and returned
     to her office. She clicked on the next high school on her list, searching their website
     until she discovered that the school’s colors were gold and white and their mascot,
     a wild mustang. Thus far, she’d encountered bulldogs and devils, pirates and horses,
     eagles and rams, warriors and cavaliers, but not a single bug.
    “No bees,” she muttered and moved on to the next school.
    From his spot on the floor, Haviland yawned, stretched, and nudged Olivia in the thigh,
     indicating his need to be let outside. They headed through the kitchen and opened
     the back door to find Noah and one of the sous-chefs in deep conversation.
    Noah turned to Olivia and exclaimed, “This man is a treasure! We’re going to have
     to expand this segment to include his story.” He pointed at Olivia. “I need you at
     the bar in five.”
    Noah disappeared and the sous-chef, whose name was Willis Locklear, peered at his
     employer from beneath long dark lashes. He seemed embarrassed by the director’s interest
     and quickly stubbed out his cigarette on a loose brick near the door. “Sorry, Ms.
     Limoges.”
    She waved off the apology. “Don’t be silly. I know you haven’t been with us long,
     but Michel said you’d bring something unique to the kitchen staff. I guess Mr. Wiseman
     saw it too.”
    Willis shrugged, his young face relaxing. “I’m part Lumbee Indian. I was telling Mr.
     Wiseman that Michel let me have time off to do a Native American cooking presentation
     at the festival this weekend and now that director guy wants me to talk about how
     my Lumbee background adds flavor to this kitchen. On camera.”
    Olivia watched Haviland trot behind the shrubbery lining the parking lot
.
“Isn’t your